


Somewhere I Have Never Traveled

by misplacedmemory



Category: The Beatles
Genre: F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5569828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misplacedmemory/pseuds/misplacedmemory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>16 year old Kathy McCartney spends every holiday with her cousins in Liverpool. The first time she travels alone, 1957, is the first time she meets one of Paul's friends, john.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Holidays

“A big bang we called it. You were just so impatient to get out of there!”

Uncle Jim is washing the dishes with his starched apron tied around his protruding waist. Mum fed him too much cake when she was here. I sip my tea gingerly. Uncle Jim assumes everyone else takes their tea piping hot. Mum and I don’t, preferring the water warm enough to scarf down in one sitting. Our reasoning is that you never know what you’ll expect. There’s nothing to worry about here, though. It’s Scout Holidays Season at the McCartney house. Paul and Mike are leaving in a few weeks to Scout Camp. Not that Paul wants to go now. He’s too busy obsessing over his guitar.

“Your Mum kept a level head, despite the contractions. I’m sure Churchill would have been impressed by her display of stoicism.”

“Aye, Mum’s good at that,” I reply dryly.

Uncle Jim laughs, shaking his head. I wonder what other memories he’s tucked away. Does he know about any embarrassing stories? I’m sure Aunt Jin has plenty of those, and Aunt Millie is more than willing to give me the pictures. The water sloshing off of the plates sets the scene for the next part of my origin saga.

“Your father, he was flying over the Channel when you were born,” Uncle Jim continues, a hint of wistfulness as he’s trying to remember each detail of the event. “Someone had wired your father—I think it was Jin—about your birth. He was so adamant to see you. He couldn’t, the Germans were devastating the Continent and he was due to go there sooner or later. Oh, but he wouldn’t stop sending telegrams and letters. Always asking for updates, for your well-being, for an inkling you existed. I felt sorry for him, so I paid for a picture of you. You’re the only person in this family to have a picture as a baby, you know.”

Dad has this rarity tucked in an old journal from his RAF days, along with a picture of Mum when she was Ms. Florence McCartney. Mum keeps the other copy in a box laced with an old perfume no longer in existence. Neither of them likes talking about the war and their life during. Dad winces when talk of my infancy surfaces.

“And where were you, Uncle Jim? Huddled with Aunt Mary?” I know he wasn’t but he tells it so much better than Mum.

“Mary didn’t come until later, Kathy,” Uncle Jim clucks. Another clatter of dishes is heard from the sink, and another sigh from Uncle Jim is heard. He’s all thumbs when it comes to household chores. “I was volunteering to put out a fire. When it was all over I hear your Mum is in at Millie’s giving birth to you! Aunt Jin was there with her, I didn’t get there until the morning. Oh, but you were such a healthy baby despite your Mum’s disposition.”

The doctor says I’m healthier than most children my age. Everyone says I look good despite the beginnings. The war changed a lot of things, Mum says. Back then it was whether you were raised right, now it’s whether you were well off during the rationing. It could’ve been worse, I tell her. She doesn’t find that amusing.

“Three kilos. Healthier than most of the babes born that month, Jin was told. You were as red as a rooster’s comb until you were a few months old. We were all a tad bit worried if your father would disapprove of a ginger. Florrie said your father’s grandmother was from Cornwall, redder than the sunset and mistaken for Irish. Your hair’s not as bright anymore, although Florrie says it gets redder in the winter.”

Bill, the boy I left behind in London, often told me I had the hair color of pooled blood. The first time he described me in such terms was right after our first kiss. He wasn’t charmed by the dark red tones of my hair, preferring to tell his schoolmates I was a brown haired girl. I should have known it wouldn’t have ended well between us. But at the time I found it quite charming to make a quiet, reserved boy from the neighboring school so frightened.

“Millie and Jin dressed you well,” Uncle Jim continues. “Always with ribbons in your hair and a new dress every three months. You were wearing a new dress when I met Mary. A powder blue number that clashed with your hair but no one complained about it. You couldn’t when cotton was in little supply. But Mary loved that dress on you. She was holding you when the sirens forced us to go to the cellar.”

“And that’s when you charmed her?” Uncle Jim grimly smiles. He hates it when anyone teases him about Mary. Jim McCartney was a sensible man who did not seduce or charm ladies.

“We talked, that’s all.”

I smirk, “Mum says you made her laugh.”

“I had to! In a dank cellar wondering whether you’re going to die a fiery death calls for some laughter, I suppose.”

“Did you like her the first time you met her?”

“She was a sensible woman who knew what she wanted.”

“Mum says she had to get her number for you.” Aunt Jin clarified this over a cup of tea. It was Mum who told Jim to see if my beloved handkerchief was left behind, and it was at that moment Uncle Jim and the quiet Mary Mohin found a moment to plan for lunch in the coming days.

Uncle Jim huffed. He didn’t like Mum teasing him over Aunt Mary. Mum was over the moon when Uncle Jim pursued Aunt Mary. Uncle Jim was the family’s confirmed bachelor, destined to spend his days in a one-bedroom flat and visiting his siblings every Sunday for dinner. “Jim was such a ladies’ man, but he never took a woman seriously,” Mum explained. She had known Jim as a flirtatious, charming bandleader in her youth, but couldn’t comprehend why he never pursued a relationship with any young woman who was interested. By the time she had left and come back to Liverpool, Uncle Jim had settled nicely into his destiny—until Aunt Mary arrived.

“Your mum just likes to tease me. She’s always been a teaser,” Uncle Jim huffed as he wiped his hands on Jin’s tea towel. “Ever since she was little, she gave our Mum grief. Could you see who’s knockin’ on the door, love?”

Allerton was a quiet suburb that offered lush council houses and a sleepy atmosphere. Helen was horrified I spent my summers in the North of England. She was used to the actual North, the North where the accents become unintelligible and the houses are surrounded by coniferous forests. She could justify a holiday in isolation, but not one where the city’s bustle was within arm’s reach. She offered to take me to Paris this summer holiday. She was so certain I’d accept her invitation because who wouldn’t? A chance to go to Paris, to visit designers who’ll let you try on their latest collections, to see the excess of the French aristocracy so well preserved despite the riots. You’d be a fool to say no.

But here I was, in Uncle Jim’s council home in a sleepy suburb, wondering what poor French boy had missed out on kissing me, as I opened the door. It was one of Paul’s friends, Ivan. A kind child, the same age as Paul and even born on the same day. He flashed me a toothy grin before stammering a hello.

“I didn’t see you at the Fete.” Where had I been? I was on a train heading to Liverpool after my week’s stay with Gram. “Paul was expectin’ you to come see him play.”

“Play?”

“He’s gotten quite good playing the guitar.”

I smirked, “Who do you think loans him those records he likes to flash around?”

Ivan was at a loss of words, but a quick smile bounced him right back. He had a word for Paul from a friend of his. “It’s for a band.”

“Paul’s out right now, Ivan.”

“Could you tell him the news?”

“That he stops wearing a quiff? Because Uncle Jim and I have told him that and he won’t listen to us.”

“No,” he laughed, “I mean to say, he’s in the band. The Quarrymen. They want to know if he can start practicing for an upcoming gig.”

“Aye, I’ll tell him when he gets home, Ivan.” A gig? Oh, Mum had told Uncle Jim Paul was going to be bigger than ol’ Jim Mac last Christmas. She was all smiles and full of encouragement for Paul, whereas Uncle Jim was wary of having a son becoming dedicated to music as a career. Paul and I shared a love of arts and letters, and ideally he would choose this path than to become a doctor. There was no shame in being a teacher, Paul had told me two years back. Now, he reasoned, there was no shame in being a musician. He’d beg for records every letter he sent, anything from rockabilly to rock n roll—he didn’t care, all he wanted was something to emulate. 

When Uncle Jim called to put his foot down about the vast volume of records Paul was receiving, Dad explained he had managed to get Paul a full year’s subscription for records, a new pilot program for youths to spend their money on records. There was nothing to worry about, Dad confirmed, his mouth twitching in amusement as he found himself covering for Mum yet again, it was all paid for as his birthday and Christmas gift. (What Uncle Jim didn’t know was that we planned to give Paul some money to buy a better guitar!)

It was only fitting for Mum to encourage Paul to become a musician. In the biggest McCartney family scandal of this century, she ran off to London to become a singer. Uncle Jim had been furious—she had just finished her studies in general education, and had a chance to study English at the local university—and nearly went down to London to drag her back home. Perhaps Uncle Jim was scared of all the attention Mum gave Paul; he didn’t want Paul to run off and make a fool of himself. While Mum found a job as a secretary, she recognized running away hadn’t been the best choice. She emphasized good marks, especially after Paul had been accepted to the premier boys school in the city. Perhaps Mum thought Paul’s cleverness and aptitude would ensure him a good chance at making his own life in music.

He already had a few songs written when I arrived a few days ago. He played them for me—trite, tender songs, the kind a young boy like Paul would write. But a sadness in his words reminded me Paul had grown old before his time. “D’you think your mum has a point,” he had asked before we left for London. I didn’t know how to respond.


	2. Chains

“They want me? What did he say exactly?”

I rolled my eyes, “He said they wanted you for some band.”

“Who? Who wanted me?”

“I don’t know, some fellow? Besides the name is silly enough—The Quarrymen. It sounds…rough to the ear, Paul.”

“Who cares about the name, Kathy,” he chided. “This is the stuff of legend!”

“It’s a band full of adolescents.”

“Christ, you should have seen them play. The lead singer was drunk out of his mind, and he still managed to make up the words to a song he couldn’t remember!”

“I didn’t know the bar was set so low for youth performers,” I replied coolly. Paul’s annoyed huff said it all—I just didn’t understand.

I didn’t understand at all. I’d seen my fair share of artists at Dad’s holiday parties, and the drunks were usually the worst. How could I explain to Paul a drunk artist never took their work seriously? No one wants a public relations disaster on their hands. But yet, record companies insisted to take them on, at least to shake what little money they could make before the artist went downhill. Many of the year’s hitmakers were old news as the excesses of fame kept them well insulated from their surroundings. When the money dried up they were often shocked to see no one wanted their talents anymore. Many of them played the same role year after year—young artist discovered, given a formulaic summer hit, spends all his time touring to the point of exhaustion and retires back to their small town.

But the chances of Paul making it big with this band, or any band at his age, was small.

///

Sitting on Paul’s handlebars had been fun when the risk of tumbling and splitting one’s head open was likely, but now that I was older it had lost its appeal. I could no longer dare Paul to go faster, because even he was scared of the fury our family would unleash on him.

Paul had made me tumble once—we were nine and he had braked suddenly. We somehow managed to charm ourselves out of trouble, but just barely. Enough tears were shed to convince Dad it had been a harmless accident, but we weren’t allowed to ride the bike for the rest of the holidays. Aunt Mary had him punished with no dessert. I spent my allowance to buy him a pack of chocolates before the holidays were over, and hid it under his bed so Aunt Mary wouldn’t find out he had found a way to subvert his punishment.

Now that we were older—and Uncle Jim threatening Paul with a grounding if I had so much as a scratch—we didn’t play dares like that anymore. The adults thought we were responsible for our own actions, and the punishments would reflect that now. Once Mum had me smoke an entire pack of cigarettes after I was caught smoking by one of the teachers. I’d thrown up all over the backyard, and her only response was to bring me a bucket to clean up my mess. Charming our way out of messes were no longer a possibility at our age.

But as age proved our downfall in childhood antics, it brought a new world to test it out—the opposite sex. Paul had recounted countless times the girls who flirted back with him, even one who dared to kiss him without the aid of a dare. His ego, already inflated with the coos and ahhs of our aunts since infancy, had gradually increased with the attention all the girls were giving him. It was difficult not to ask if he had a steady girlfriend. After Bill I wondered if my experience was any similar to his.

“After Ivan’s, do you want to go to Penny Lane and get a lolly ice?”

“Yes.” It was hot, and Uncle Jim had been in a good mood to give us a few pounds to spend together.

Ivan lived in the better part of Liverpool, in which he didn’t live in Liverpool at all. He lived in a sleepy neighborhood, Woolton. The further out of Liverpool you were, the more proper the spoken English language became. He had won a spot at the boys school like Paul, and became good friends when it was discovered they were born on the same day. He was a gangly fellow, with a grin on his face and eager to crack a joke. He had always taken a shine to me, but I wasn’t interested due to my relationship with Bill. I hadn’t an excuse to refute any advances made now. I had pegged Ivan as just a friend of Paul’s, possibly even a friend of mine, but I couldn’t see any further developments than that.

Paul leaned the hand-me-down bicycle Uncle Jim gifted him against the brick fence. “Did you have to wear those?”

I raised a brow. “Wear what?”

“You know…” He jerked his head towards the powder blue pants I had on. Not really pants, but not really shorts, they were those new bermuda shorts making the rounds in leisurewear. “ _ Those _ .”

I extended my leg as if I was one of the dancers in a Degas painting, bowing ever so slightly. Paul rolled his eyes, exasperated by my antics. “You mean my pants?” He started walking up the path in an attempt to get rid of me.

“I’m kidding! You know I’m just teasing, Paul.”

But our kid wasn’t having it. His face, usually a ruddy mess around the cheeks, had been drained of all color. Was meeting this lad  _ that _ serious? “You can’t embarrass me, alright?”

I laughed at his absurd request, “You must be joking, Paul.”

“Just don’t sound so posh,” he muttered, quickly knocking the front door. I managed to close my gaping mouth, too stunned to listen to what Mrs. Vaughn was saying. The boys were right outside, she said, she’d tell Ivan right away.

It was the first time Paul admitted I was posh. Didn’t he remember I was a Mersey girl? All the slang I had picked up from him and the McCartney clan had no use in the City of Westminster, but still it stubbornly refused to fade away. The thick accent I developed as a child still crept back up after years of being taught to properly speak the Queen’s English. Mortifying sessions with a spinster who would keep me from enjoying my lunch break. Hadn’t I cried to him the first winter I arrived back from London? The taunts from the children, the disdainful looks from the mothers.

Now suddenly I was too posh.

Mrs. Vaughn led me to the kitchen as Paul left for the backyard. She was making sandwiches for the boys, a habit for tea time. Would I like to help? How was school? Where did I plan to go after my A-levels? I don’t remember half of what I said as I sliced the cucumber methodically. Something about King’s College--which  _ was _ the plan--and something about planning for a degree in English. All I could think about was Paul’s comment.

The loud guffaws that accompany boys up to no good filled the hallway. Mrs. Vaughn already had the tea sitting in the next room. All that was missing were the sandwiches and biscuits. Would I mind while she cleaned up?

Years of helping Mum with company parties held in our home came in handy in moments like these. Being able to balance trays of foods and drinks was second nature to me. It caused quite a stir when I went to school with arms overflowing with materials. How could my delicate frame sustain the weight of tomes? It was a mystery to the teachers. Going to lecture in the fall was going to be quite the challenge if I kept up with the habit.

Ivan and two other boys were in the sitting room. It was Ivan and a pale, ruddy cheeked lad in one settee. Paul sat in a cushioned chair closest to the fireplace. He didn’t seem to recognize my presence, preferring to put on an air nonchalance. One of them had to be the fabled lead singer Paul oh-so fawned over. It couldn’t have been the blonde; he was  _ seemed _ cocky, but he didn’t seem like he could pull people under a spell. At least, not for our kid. At a quick glance he didn’t exude the charm for such an undertaking. No, he was more of a follower.

“Ivan, I’m surprised you didn’t tell us about the bird!”

Bird? My head swiveled over to the direction the voice came from.  _ Ah. _

“Shove off, John,” Ivan shot back, taking the tray away from me.

_ John, was it? _ He winked at me. This was the face who stole Paul’s attention: a snarling smile paired with a hook nose, with a slicked version of a quiff that was held together by cheap smelling pomade. He was trying too hard to be a Teddy Boy. I stared intently into the crescent eyes looking defiantly back at me.

“You might want to keep ‘er locked up, Ivy,” the blonde one observed.

I grabbed a biscuit from the tray. Still warm in my hand, I bit down, contemplating the scene before me. Was this really my competition? “You’re quite posh for someone who sang at a fete drunk.” John’s face broke sightly. He didn’t let on he was taken aback by my response, save for his smile disappearing. Paul made no indication of his displeasure lest John figure out I was related to him. Let Ivan get all the slack. I raised an eyebrow at Paul before walking back to the kitchen. Too posh, hah! Posh wasn’t half of the story.

The meeting seemed to go on forever, nearly an hour. There was only so much I could tell Mrs. Vaughn about my education and plans for the near future. Ivan was set to graduate with high enough marks to get into a classics program, and the younger children were set to enter the next phase of their education. Had I any suggestions for the A-Levels? I gave her a few, a couple of suggestions from previous girls who took the same exams I had. Never assume you’re going to do well, never slack off, always write dryly in the essay portion. Men were grading us. No need to explain in case they thought our point was dragging out.

Soon, I could hear Paul call for me from the front door. As Mrs. Vaughn and I exchanged our goodbyes on our way to the door, Paul was chatting to the John boy. John had a few good inches to his advantage given Paul was due for another growth spurt soon. Paul jutted his chin out as he walked down the steps to get the bicycle. I thanked Ivan for having us over, coolly ignoring the peering leers from John and the blonde boy, and made my way over to Paul.

As we pedaled away, I sat on the handlebars in silence. Paul was busy chattering away about the success the meeting had been. He was going to play guitar and maybe even sing lead, but mostly just stick to backing vocals. I nodded along to pretend I was listening. Perhaps Paul and I were destined to drift apart given our distance and genders. We were both entering the time of our lives where differences in upbringing and environment were starting to make an impact. We were aware of how different our families were. Uncle Jim and Aunt Mary were intent on getting the boys to the best schools possible, with the dream of Paul attending medical school. Mum and Dad were keen to encourage me to pursue an education, be what it may. There was no pressure to become a doctor or a nurse or a teacher. Mum and Dad would quietly support me in any way as long as I followed my instincts.

“John looked mortified when you said he was posh,” Paul chuckled, unwrapping the ice lolly under the trees where we often ate our ice lollies. “Almost looked like he was surprised anyone would so blatantly stand up to him.”

I let out a chuckle. “Did he know we were cousins?”

“He did when I called you. He asked ‘That bird’s yours?’ And I said coolly, ‘She’s my cousin.’ And he simply nodded and gave me one of those smirks he’s always on about. Ivy says he likes it when people stand up to him.”

I bit down on the ice lolly. Standing up to my rival wasn’t on my to-do list on this trip, but then again I wasn’t expecting to have a rival. “I suppose you might want to take some notes, Paul.”

He snorted back, “I think I’ve enough practice dealing with you.”

We shoved each other playfully, quick smiles lighting our faces at the childish antics we pulled as cousins and quasi-siblings. Perhaps I had nothing to worry about.


	3. Memories

“Our Florrie was a sight to behold,” Aunt Edith disclosed over Sunday dinner. “You’d never see her with a curl out of place or a torn hem.”

Aunt Jin chuckled, “You talk as if she was finicky, Edith.”

“Mum was always overwhelmed about her tastes.” Aunt Edith shoots a glance at me. She isn’t a fan of Mum’s spendthrift habits. Mum never wore anything from the New Look, but she also believed a smart wardrobe makes a person.

I shrugged, “Mum has recently taken to teaching me how to re-hem my skirts.”

“I’m glad she’s started to mature.” Aunt Edith was not Mum’s favorite sister.

Aunt Millie huffed, “Oh, Edith, Florrie’s always been quick with a sewing machine.”

“Remember that lovely powder blue dress she wore to Jim’s wedding? She made that dress shine after she used Jin’s sewing machine.”

“She was always too fond of those Hollywood starlet looks, Florrie was.”

“She did your hair for the wedding based on those starlet looks, Edith, and I do recall Albert was quite besotted with the curls.”

Uncle Jim, patriarch of these Sunday dinners, simply shook his head as Edith began squabbling over old wounds with Mille and Jin. I bit back a smirk at the sight of older siblings fighting about the antics of the youngest. Mum often ignored Edith’s needling on her brief visits over the holidays. Dad was more likely to defend her honor than she was.

_ “Why do you let Edith talk nonsense,” Dad asked one evening, years after we had moved to London and settled. _

_ Mum simply said nothing, and went back to reading a novel she had brought from the library. _

Dad was simply unaccustomed to jabs and teases from siblings. The only son in a family where broods were no smaller than five, he lived a life of privilege. Watching the two together was always fascinating. Whereas Dad was hot tempered when he was ribbed too far, Mum was quick to smooth out any misunderstandings with a smile and a laugh.

I leaned over to Uncle Jim, “Have they always squabbled like this?”

He laughed, shaking his head like he does when Paul and Mike are teasing each other, “When your Mum was your age, Edith was busy with her own brood. It didn’t start until your Mum left for London.”

“That old tale,” I sighed, watching Aunt Jin excuse herself to get the dessert from the freezer. Although alluded to so often when the conversation turned to Mum, it was a story I was allowed to know one night when Dad was tipsy. Despite her status as the baby of the McCartney clan, Florence Elizabeth McCartney was a volatile character for her older siblings. Aunt Edith had a hard time restraining her by the time she was becoming a women (as they said in those days). Uncle Joe didn’t know what to make of her except to bring down curfews. Only Uncle Jim knew how to get to her, given their closeness. It was forged the way most bonds for life are formed--over tears. Uncle Jim was the only sibling who was always able to calm her down.

And like a moth to a flame, Mum followed Uncle Jim everywhere. Mum says she remembers dancing to Uncle Jim on the piano during his rehearsals with the old band. She started singing along at family dinners and holidays. She was always quiet enough to blend into the background as the older siblings talked, but not always quiet when the conversation did not suit her morals. 

As the youngest she was given more liberties than her older sisters. She finished her education, she worked a part-time on the weekend. She was cosmopolitan in a city that seemed to be stuck in the Victorian era. She kept up with the royal news, the goings on in London, the fashion of the time. It drove Aunt Edith mad. She was trying to get Mum to settle down, given that Gram was getting older. It was up to Mum, Aunt Edith decided, to take care of their parents. It wasn’t a decision that all siblings agreed on. Uncle Jim wanted them to stay put, that with 10 siblings it was better to divide the responsibilities.

“In fact,” Uncle Jim mumbled, nearing his mouth to my ear surreptitiously, “I gave your Mum the money to leave.”

I snapped my head quickly over to stare at him. Mum had made secret plans to leave home and start a life in London. Aunt Edith had been pushing a cousin of Uncle Albert’s onto her. In an untypical McCartney style, she suddenly left.

“You?” I whispered it so low I was afraid Uncle Jim didn’t hear me.

He raised the eyebrow we all shared, “Remember when Florrie dressed her in that blue dress when I wed Mary?”

All the Aunts cooed, including Aunt Edith, albeit grudgingly. 

“You were an angel, love,” Aunt Millie laughed. “With a small bonnet to top it off!”

It was true. Mum had dressed me in a smart dress. She and I witnessed in the sparsely attended wedding of James McCartney and Mary Mohin. Despite being raised in a household that had all but shaken off what Irish roots they had left, Mum was dutifully dedicated to looking respectable at the Catholic Church Aunt Mary had wanted to be married in. I’m told the priest was amused at how quiet I had fallen when the ceremony began. It was a comment that made my Anglican father secretly annoyed.

Mum and Dad hadn’t married through the church until I was six. At the outbreak of the war, Dad had proposed to Mum they should get married should anything happen. Ever a romantic, Mum flatly refused his proposal on those terms. When Dad was drafted into the RAF after the first year, Mum obliged, though she refuses to admit she was already with child. I had done the math during the holidays spent with Gram. Nine months prior to my birth, they were living together in a one bedroom flat upstairs from a grocer’s. Dad was drafted a month after, and by the end of another month came he ran straight to Mum’s arms where she proceeded to run to the bathroom as a rush of morning sickness came through. Dad promptly took her to a registrar, where under the judging eyes of an old spinster, he made her a proper woman.

This is the version Dad told me once, in the brief moment he was drunk enough to open up about the time before I was born. He and Uncle Richard—my father’s uncle who remained a bachelor—were both plastered in Gram’s living room. When I asked Mum what he meant by a proper woman, she wouldn’t speak to him for the rest of the day. Florence McCartney, while dangerously independent for a woman in those days, was never going to admit she was a woman who lived in sin with her soon-to-be husband and was pregnant before she was married. It was an open secret in the family that I was born a month earlier than she said I was due, that her wedding day was a month after than she originally had written back home about. How could she admit she had married because her husband found it to be the right thing to do and not for love?

This is an understatement, of course. Dad, in his drunken state, ran to the road outside of Gram’s house and declared to the Cornish coastline that he loved Florence Elizabeth McCartney. Mum, of course, was mortified as the locals brought it up for the rest of the holiday. Cracks about how an Irishwoman could make a Cornish man go mad with love popped up for the rest of the year, according to Gram. In a rash moment Dad had let go of his reserved nature and gave Mum the outlandish display of affection she secretly fancied. Perhaps she knew her wedding was long overdue, that he would have dragged her to the registrar had she not been expecting just to have the privilege of calling her ‘my wife’ before his death.


End file.
